


Survivor

by cadkitten



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Budding Love, Child Abuse, Conditioning, Death, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Falling In Love, Fear, Hand Jobs, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Survivor - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 02:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8384158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: Healing from abuse isn't always the straightest of paths and it doesn't always involve the things or the people that you think it will. Sometimes the things that help the most are the ones that surprise you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those ABC things where you do a short bit for each word, except I did them backwards because I felt like it.  
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: ["Life Screams" by Lacey Sturm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y0QTtUdQl0c)
> 
>  
> 
> **This isn't going to be a pretty ride; it will deal with some very dark topics. If you think it may trigger you, please consider if it's worth reading it for the sake of your own health. Keep yourself in mind first. Please.**

**ZERO**

It's _ground zero_ , it's the very room where it all started and where he first realized what was happening to him. Fear grips him and holds him in place in a way that could never be denied. The world's moving on behind him, around him, and it's all he can do not to let his stomach stage the revolt that it wants to.

There was a time, an instance in his life where Nanda Parbat was his home, where he would have been happy to come back here. _And then he wasn't_. 

A shiver wracks his body and he forces air into his lungs, chokes down the bitter sting of acid in his throat, and he grips the hilt of his sword a little tighter for it. 

This is an _old_ wound and he can _fight_ it. He's _better_ than this... better than his past. 

The words ring empty and hollow in the corridors of his mind. Sometimes it's the lies he tells himself and sometimes... sometimes it's the ones he hears from the people who are supposed to _love_ him. 

_It'll be okay. Your past is your past._

They don't know; he's never told them. How _could_ he tell them? How could he show them his _weakness_ in such a condemning sort of manner?

His feet finally follow his commands and he forces them one in front of the other, forces them through this room and _forward_. One step at time. One _day_ at a time. 

_He's stronger than this_.

**YEARNING**

Some days are better than others. Some days he can forget there was ever anything _wrong_ with him and simply live like everyone else on the face of this absurd little planet. Some days it doesn’t feel like life is impossible.

His hands work with the violin, almost separate from his thoughts. It doesn't take much to let himself fall into the music, to let it own his body while he frees his mind from the ugly shackles of his past.

Bach, Beethoven, Vivaldi, Bruch, Tchaikovsky, and Mendelssohn: it's not even something he has to _try_ for anymore. He imagines the rest of the orchestra behind his violin, then _gives in_ as if nothing else in the entire would could ever matter.

 _Here_ , behind the sail of notes, behind the finger work that should have left him in _agony_ after the long hours spent perfecting it, he finds _freedom_.

He _yearns_ for this, for the delicate vibrato and the elegant sweep of his bow, the sweet _high_ sound of a passionate piece lifting from his very _soul_. 

It's when he _stops_ that he finds himself worse for the wear. Escapism at its finest and the resultant fall worse than, perhaps, he's ever known anyone else to admit to it being. He sees the faces of those he's harmed, he _hears_ the screams and the pleas and he _feels_ the blood on his eight year old hands. 

Behind that, he hears the _anger_ directed at him. He _feels_ the hands on him that never should have _been_. His body aches with the _blows_ , with the sting of blades and his mind flinches from the whisper of a weapon on the air. _Training_ they said. It'll make you _stronger_ they said. 

In one respect... it has. In the other, he is more broken than anyone he _knows_ and when you know _Batman_ , that's a tall order.

He places his violin on the stand and he _stares_ out the window for what lapses into an undetermined amount of time. Unwavering, un _feeling_ , and this... _this_ is where he yearns for the tears that will not come.

**X-RAY**

It's an uncomfortable feeling, a strange stinging of pain as it maps up his arm. He's blocked the cross-beam of a damn _building_ with his forearms. It vibrates up his arms and it _aggravates_ old injuries.

His teeth grit against it and he _presses_ and he _holds_. He can taste _blood_ in his mouth and his head swims with how difficult it is to breathe past _this_ particular brand of pain. But there is no choice here - either he holds it or these _children_ die. 

There's a swish of air behind him and he knows the children have been taken away by his teammates. He _knows_ he can let go now, but the pain inside of him tells him otherwise. Tells him to _hold_ it until he's sweating so badly it's slipping, tells him to cling to it until he's _shaking_ beneath the strain, tells him if he lets go he's a _failure_ and a waste of human space.

There's a voice and it whispers to him inside his mind. It tells him he's pathetic for needing to let go, tells him that the pain in his arm is simply something more to deal with and that no one _cares_ if it feels like it's broken or not.

Water wells behind his mask and he closes his eyes against it, knows _this_ is what useless feels like. This is what they always told him he'd be: stranded and alone, holding up the weight of the world with no one to _care_ if he is or not. It saves no one and it hurts only him. This _isn't_ what he's been bred for. This is-

He's holding his arm to his chest, holding the sling that is filled with his _shame_ , fingers playing with the white fabric that seems to scream of his surrender to _weakness_. Someone's voice tells him it's fractured, his eyes find the x-ray on the wall, and he _sees_ the past in the neatly labeled _healed_ fractures, in the ones that never have been given the time they truly need. He _sees_ it in the way Dick looks at him, in the set of Bruce's jaw. 

When he gets up and leaves _no one_ stops him and, honestly, he wishes they would.

**WEAKNESS**

The woman at his feet, the one he's _protecting_ is sobbing. It's a pathetic sort of sound, but it's not one he's unfamiliar with. It's one he understands and he's heard from his very own lips at very distinctive points in his past. His cape covers her as he steps in front of her; stands between her and her attacker.

He can feel his face turning from stone to _deadly_ and he prays someone will stop him before he breaks a very _peculiar_ little promise he's made. They come for him and he lashes out without a single thought as to _how_ he's taking them.

He's still _short_ , barely five foot two and he's a seething ball of rage. His sword is on his back and it's all that's keeping him from _killing_ this man. He _feels_ every blow, jarring through his body with a power he usually reserves for enemies three times his size; for the sleaze that can take it and keep on coming. Right here, right now, he uses the power without _thought_.

The impact of fist on flesh is _gratifying_ and there's a fleeting thought as to if this is for her or for _him_. Bone crunches and blood sprays and he doesn't _stop_. He's whispering in a language he hasn't spoken in five years, saying all of the things he _wanted_ to have said when he was the one on the floor, when he was the one screaming for his life. 

He spits the words like venom now, every punch another desperate reflection of his past. He's heard how the victim becomes the abuser, he's heard time and again how it is _inevitable_ , and he wonders what this man's past is and he forces himself not to believe that it could ever be true _for him_ because fighting back - protecting - isn't abusing. Or at least he tells himself it isn't.

The woman sobs and he slams the spikes of his gauntlets across the man's throat. He crumbles and if it weren't for the hands on his shoulders, weren't for the scent of gun oil and cheap cologne on the air, he knows this man would be _dead_. There's a moment and then there's the click of a gun's hammer being pulled back. There's the dull thump of a silenced gun being fired and the man jerks and _dies_ at his feet. 

His hands shake as he pushes them under his cape, hides them away as he does his best to _deal_. He whispers his thanks to Jason, closes his eyes against the _pain_ , and he _steels_ himself because that's the only thing he _can_ do. He's the _protector_ , not the victim. This is a _weakness_ he cannot show.

There's an empty part in his soul, right where his heart should be, and he _knows_ that he shows all the signs. _Knows_ that Jason has saved him from himself and understands that _next time_ he may not be so lucky.

**VULNERABILITY**

They're all talking, it's Christmas and he hears their laughter as they share stories of their childhood. They speak about how Dick used to scare his parents, used to risk everything by jumping onto a moving train and just _take_ the jumps between the cars if only to prove that he could. Daredevil from the start.

Jason tells how he once tried to _steal_ a library book, how the librarian finally realized he just wanted to _keep_ it forever and checked it out in her name and let him have it. The lines are drawn that she paid for it from her own pocket, turned it in as lost or forgotten and paid the fines just so Jason could have the book.

Bruce tells tales of elegant galas and stodgy old people ignoring him so he could do _anything_ he wanted. 

Tim... Tim is _silent_ and it's a deadly sort of silence. It rivals Damian's own and there's a fleeting instant where Damian meets his eyes, where he sees their shared _vulnerability_ and he has to swallow down the fear in his gut. 

Everyone's looking at _him_ and he does what he _always_ does. It's completely out of reflex now: to defend, to _deceive_. He sneers out a comment about how stupid this is and that they're wasting time with _pointless_ activities, and he stomps over to the presents and yanks them out, starts _handing_ them out. 

They'll see him as petulant, as a spoiled little _prince_ even though he's _sixteen_ and no one has a right to stay that way for that long. It's a deflection and it's better than showing them the rawness in his heart. It's better than _lying_ and telling them he has _good_ memories. And it's a deflection for the other person in the room that he understands would have to lie just as much, just as hard as he would.

He bears the looks, endures the tight-lipped look Bruce is giving him and the _sigh_ from Alfred's lips. He _knows_ there's an exchanged look somewhere behind him about how he needs to be taught some manners again and he _hears_ the words already, _feels_ the lack of air filling his cape as he's being benched in Batman's mind already for his _disdain_ and... and it's worth it. 

Anything to hide his pain; anything to keep his past exactly where it is.

**UNSTABLE**

He's reckless and he knows it. The fist to a man's gut's a little too aggressive, the blade a little too close to every expert _killing_ strike that he knows. Even as he takes a group of them, he knows he's barely holding back the reflex to _end_ everyone around him. Every strike is aimed to kill and pulled at the last second to be just slightly off-kilter. 

He _itches_ to _take_ and he understands that that isn't _normal_. His breath hitches as he comes _so_ close to doing what he longs to do. There's adrenaline in his body, there's _death_ in his blood, and he knows one slip, one person hitting too close to home and he'll _lose_ this internal battle tonight. 

It's always a little too close, a little to _fresh_ this time of the year. He hears the thud of boots behind him, _knows_ Batman is at his back. He pulls it a little more, grits his teeth against the urge to rend this scum asunder. 

Three men facing him and he knows a dozen more at his back. Their faces become familiar and their weapons become the things that terrorize his dreams, and he's _frozen_ to the spot. Air won't come into his lungs and his fists won't unclench. The hilt of his sword becomes his ground and his anger becomes his _motivation_ and while he can hear someone telling him how it's good to get it out, he can see the _disappointment_ in his father's face, can see the _inside_ of Arkham's cells, and he sees his _fear_.

He's three streets away before he knows what he's doing. He's _left_ Batman. He's abandoned him to impossible odds and _why_?

For this, he'll never forgive himself. There's a call for backup to Batman, a plea in his own _anger-ridden_ voice on a dozen channels before he _collapses_. 

His hands are in his hair, his fingers are gripping so hard as he _pulls_ , as he _screams_. He rips at his mask, yanks at his clothing as if it's on fire, and then he's _running_ and hell itself wouldn't catch him now.

There's a lie on the tip of his tongue, a reason why he abandoned, and he _hates_ himself for it even as he hears the chorus of voices who have come to _save_ the one he's abandoned. 

This is what it feels like to fall apart. This is what it feels like to _fail_. 

**TOUCH**

It's a day where he can simply _exist_. It's nothing normal, nothing he would normally have been able to have. It's an oddity and he understands with clarity that he should be afraid. That being calm and in control is such a rarity that it's the threat rather than the norm and should be terrifying. But when the world spins out of control on a daily basis it's hard to understand what this side is until he's standing on it.

He's so focused on the leaves, on the rustle of _fall_ that he doesn't notice anything else. It's one of the few times where he's let his guard down; where he's existing in a blissful state of _unaware_ that most people spend their lifetime within. 

The hand on his shoulder is meant to be friendly; he's sure of that in retrospect. But the knee-jerk reaction is to _fight_ it. He has hold of it, has the person on the ground in a heartbeat, his foot on their chest and their arm braced by his thigh in preparation to _snap_ it if he has to. 

The way Tim stares up at him from the ground tells him _volumes_. The way there's _anguish_ there that has nothing to do with the pain of what he's done to him; the way there's no words of admonishment on his tongue for an overreaction to a simple _touch_.

He helps him up without a single word. He doesn't apologize because he _can't_ ; because it would be admitting to why he responded that way. It's enough of an admission that he didn't at least dislocate his shoulder for the effort of _touching_ him without his permission. But that's just it... no one has _ever_ asked his permission. 

A shudder wracks him and he _pretends_ he's cold. He's sweating inside his jacket, but the lie's easier than the truth. 

The wind blows and the leaves rustle and Tim... he doesn't leave Damian's side, and Damian's not sure how he feels about that.

**SEXUALITY**

His fingers tighten in the bedsheets at his sides. He's sweating and his heart is beating what feels like a million miles an hour, a frantic beat of this absurd combination of arousal and _fear_. He's forcing an age-old issue, one he's been through a hundred or a thousand times since his body began to respond to such things. 

There's what he _wants_ to see and what he knows he _should_ want to be watching. There's the truth and there's the lie. 

He fools himself into saying it's conditioning. _Watches_ what he wants and refuses to touch. He calls it torture and he _hates_ himself when he fails; when his body betrays him. 

The click of a button held in his hand and a new screen, this one of the things he _doesn't_ want to watch. The high effeminate moans, the bounce and sway of breasts he holds _no_ interest in, and he grinds his teeth as he does his _best_ to force an issue that doesn't want to be forced when watching _this_. 

His arousal is fading and he knows what _frustration_ is. His head hits the wall with a dull _thump_ and he does it again... and again. His blunt nails dig into his palms and he clenches his thighs until he's shaking. He needs to _force_ this; he needs to _cum_.

He's soft and he _hates_ himself. He aches and he feels like there's poison in his blood. He's _wrong_ and he can hear the voices that have all told him so; a chorus of what sounds like _death_ to his ears. His heart thuds in his chest and the first prickles of _anxiety_ swell up inside of him, touching the edges of his psyche with their deadly little fingers. 

His sexuality is a living, breathing _demon_ in his chest. His desires are _daggers_ in his flesh.

This is what it's like to _hate_ himself this week.

**REACTION**

He _hears_ their words, sees the smile on their lips as they tell him the painting is beautiful. Alfred says he knows exactly where to put it up and Damian imagines some dark corner where no one will ever see it again. He knows the inflections, understands on a scientific level that they should be telling him the truth, but their words don't reconcile with the truth. 

He hears his own voice telling them it's not good enough, that it's not what it _could_ be if only he practices more, if only he tries harder. It's the steady beat of his heart as he tells them it's _trash_ and it's the odd _shame_ he feels when they tell him it's not.

The past comes on like an onslaught of horror and he's _drowning_ in it. The words are tossed around in his mind, the hard proof of everything he's ever done wrong. A failure, not good enough, desperate for attention, _pathetic_. 

It's a gut reaction to what should have made him feel _good_ , what would have made any normal person feel good. It's knowing he's good at something but not feeling good _enough_. It's knowing he's the _best_ and yet understanding that he's nothing but a _failure_.

It feels like he's being ripped apart from the inside out.

**QUESTIONS**

The weight of the footsteps as they come toward him tell him Tim has come to visit. He understands that this is how Tim tells him he's there, that this is how Tim has chosen to deal with Damian's reactions to his presence. 

Bruce's voice echoes in his mind, tells him one day he has to stop being so _cold_ to Tim. He knows and he understands that this is how everyone else perceives what happens between them. The only thing that matters is that Tim knows the truth of it and Damian knows that these times are as much for Tim as they are for him.

They sit in silence and it _seems_ like they're ignoring one another. The breeze is their conversation, the whisper of snow the tears upon their cheeks. Outwardly, this is nothing but two people who hate one another doing their best to _avoid_. Inwardly, this is the only thing they can both stand. 

He's come to understand that Tim's pain is different from his own, come to see the scars have rested differently on him than they have on himself. For every physical break Damian's endured, Tim's has been emotional. For every cruel thought and notion implanted in Damian's mind, Tim's have been countless slashes upon his skin; lines drawn by his very own hands. 

Damian's came from his _home_ and Tim's... his came from the world around him. It is no less _abuse_ simply for where it came from.

He knows that while he flinches at touch, Tim _needs_ it with a closeness that he can barely contain. He understands that while he bites his tongue until there's blood, trains until he _breaks_ , Tim sits alone in his room and fights for his breath, claws at his throat and his thighs until he's raw and bleeding because the screams won't free themselves into the air the way Damian's can. 

It takes him an hour to do it, but he _manages_ to find something more of himself to _give_. He offers his hand and when Tim takes it, the force of his grip speaks of everything he's fighting down inside. It whispers the truth in the iron strength of his fingers that still somehow manage to tremble beneath it all. 

The world stirs and the wind picks up. There's dust in his throat and there's a chill in his bones he's not sure will ever fade, and there's the smallest spark of _awareness_ that has never been there before. Nothing short of Tim's voice could force him to let go.

**PERSEVERANCE**

There's a strike and a thud, the dull thump of wood against wood, the rattle of impact through his arms. It's jarring and he enjoys the awareness that it presents him with. It's pieces of his heart and his mind falling back into place. Every strike is something more, something _else_ and he's sure his chosen sparring partner understands that just as much as he does. 

They don't speak and to the outside there's seething hatred just barely beneath the surface. There's barely restrained anger in every strike and the faster they go, the more of it seeps out. There's no holding back and while every blow is blocked, if one was not... well that would be the _error_ of it all, wouldn't it? If he were to slip and miss a strike, he'd be out cold in a second. If Tim were to fail to meet his aggression spar-for-spar, he's certain something would _break_.

The crack of wood against wood gains intensity. The world bends and warps around them and he strikes again and again. There's sweat in his eyes, but he doesn't _need_ them. There's a sting in his muscles, but it doesn't _matter_. There's a tear in his soul that even this cannot _mend_.

Two more strikes, both at the fullest extent of his strength and something _snaps_ deep inside of him. He drops his staff, ducks the next strike, and his hands are on Tim before he can _think_. There's no hesitation and he understands a fraction of a second too late that this is, perhaps, the biggest mistake of his life.

Tim's mouth is hot against his own and his taste is like honey it's so _unique_. There's a hand in his hair and there's panic in his throat. He _knows_ it's not in opposition to what he wants, but he can't force his body to see it that way.

He can _sense_ the confusion in Tim's gaze as he lets him leave. He knows that the beautiful blue eyes that track him are full of questions and he just wishes he had a little bit more _perseverance_ when it comes to this. If his first instinct weren't to _run_... what is it that he would have found?

It doesn't last long. He doesn't even make it to his room before he hates himself for what he's done. 

**OXYGEN**

He's two rooms away, but he can _hear_ it. It's not the first night and it won't be the last. The desperate gasp for oxygen which could be _anything_. He _understands_ what his father and Alfred have discounted it to be and he _understands_ that they're wrong.

No amount of naivety could lead him to believe that there's anything but _agony_ in Tim's desperate bid to get oxygen into his lungs. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall and he _listens_ , because he doesn't know what else to do.

He wants to be stronger. He wants to help, but he knows that he _can't_.

His world feels like it's spinning out of control and he doesn't want to be _touched_ today. He's not sure he could stand to so much as spar with someone right now and he knows tonight the first time some criminal tries to grab him, they'll be down before they can take their next breath. 

He can't present this side to Tim when he's in so much pain, but he also can't leave him to suffer another time all alone. 

There's a steadying breath in his lungs and he does what he knows he _has_ to. He doesn't knock and he doesn't wait for an invitation. He picks the lock and he lets himself in and he _barricades_ the door behind himself. This isn't anyone else's world and he knows Tim needs to know that.

He opens the curtains and pushes open the window and when he slides to the floor beneath it, he _watches_ Tim's huddled form on the bed. He sees the tremble and the shake and he sees the flash of those blue eyes beneath the sheen of betraying tears that track down his face, and he doesn't look away.

He shifts himself into his meditation position and he _forces_ Tim to see it. It takes him a precious long time before it happens, but when it does, he can see the way oxygen is returning to Tim's lungs and he sees the way his body tries to stop shaking. There's something to be said for leading by example and he _knows_ that.

There are still tears tracking down Tim's face and Damian still feels the _violence_ inside of his own mind, straining behind every single thought of his past. But right here, right _now_ , there's this petty little thing they can share. There isn't room for words, no time for questions, and it isn't the right sort of place to apologize for his actions what feels like _weeks_ ago but has - perhaps - only been a day or two. 

There's forgiveness in Tim's demeanor and there's _oxygen_ in Tim's lungs and that's all Damian could ever _truly_ care about. Himself be _damned_. 

**NOTHING**

He's falling off the building and the leap was _anything_ but intentional. He hates to admit when there's a mistake, when he's fucked it all up.

Batman had his back to him and they're almost thirty stories up. There's nothing to slam the grapple into that will _hold_ and he damn well knows it. It's _free fall_ and it's _nothingness_ beneath his body. There's a scream stuck in his lungs, one that he _cannot_ betray himself with. He cannot sacrifice two for the piss poor quality of the one. 

There's a flat line in his mind and he struggles not to just _accept_ what has happened. He _fights_ to engage creative thinking. His grapple is out and he's _waiting_ , it's all he can do.

Three gunshots and the glass shatters some five floors beneath him. It's _opportunity_ and he _takes_ it. 

A beam and the grapple embedded. He forces his feet in front of himself and when he shoots, when it _grabs_ , he feels the jerk and the sickly pop of his shoulder dislocating. His feet crash through the glass and he feels the _jar_ of it to his very core. He _lets go_ at the last possible second and he careens right through someone's glass table, slamming into the hard wood of their bar. The marble of the countertop comes up fast and he shields himself and _tucks_ , but he can feel the impact on his bracers more than he _wants_ to. 

He hits the floor with a thud and he lies there, staring up at the ceiling and realizing that there should be _fear_ here. There should be the desperate skitter of adrenaline telling him he almost died and there's _not_. 

There's an empty hole inside of him where his will to survive should be and he _knows_ he shouldn't be out here tonight.

Bitter acceptance slips in between his ribs and he pulls himself off the ground. The glass in his side should _hurt_ , should _bother_ him beyond measure and the fact that it _doesn't_ says more than the steady beat of his heart.

Some would call him a warrior, would call him the bravest person on Earth for his lack of reaction to nearly dying. He just calls himself _pathetic_.

**MEMORIES**

This part has never come easily for him, has never been something he's willing to fully accept. He's crushed and he's _broken_ and it's all on the inside, looking out. 

The shower pelts him with what feels like a million little _bullets_ and he lets it happen. He doesn't want anyone anywhere near him today, he doesn’t even want his _own_ skin like this. But there's nothing he can do except overwhelm himself with it. If he burns up all of the ire, all of the anger, all of the _pain_ of being touched... he'll be _okay_ ; if only because he has to be.

His hands are shaking and there's nowhere to put them to hide it. So he stares down at them, watches the water pool and spill over, watches the way his every tremor shows a thousand times more than he wants it to. 

It's a persistent sort of ache, the kind that burns and begs to be solved and yet _will not_ be. He _wants_ and yet he does not have a clue what it is that he desires. He _needs_ and he has to reject it all and he _knows_ what's coming before it ever does.

His back against the slick wall, against the only thing he can stand to have touching him right now, and he _remembers_. He recalls the tears and the pain and he remembers begging for it all to stop. He remembers the threats and he remembers being _bred_ to attempt to kill his own mother as a part of his training. He recalls her blade at his throat each and every year of his life and he recalls the hundreds of men and women in between, all too willing to _beat_ their lessons into him.

More than all of that, he remembers the first time his father hugged him and how _foreign_ such a sensation was to his very senses. He _realizes_ that a lot of his not wanting to be touched has everything to do with _how_ he came to associate touch. Touch is pain. Touch is a fist or the slap of a weapon. Touch is the sting of a blade slicing into his skin or the sensation of being backhanded for not being _enough_. Touch is having the wind knocked out of him and his back on the ground as the blackness comes with a hundred more blows he's helpless to block.

The memories tell him why he flinches when these other, lesser known, versions of touch happen. The way he yanks away when there's a hand on his shoulder. The way he _strikes_ when Suren tries to hug him from behind or the way he barely holds back his blade at Tim's throat for one and only time he's ever slapped him on the back. Dick had called it _comradery_ ; Damian had called it _terrifying_. Not that he'd ever _told_ them that. Not that he'd ever admit he was that far gone.

The water falls around him and he closes his eyes and allows himself the precious moment of allowing his own saline to join the slick presence of this water. He won't call it what it is. It _can't_ let himself think of it like that. _That_ is weakness and Damian Wayne... is _weaker_ than Damian al Ghul.

**LIES**

The remnants of his cruel words are still on the air; the reaction to them _prominent_ in the otherwise still room. It's a reaction he cannot help, one that he doesn't _think_ about before it comes spilling past his lips. Maybe _this_ is yet another place where he _lacks_.

He sees the anger in his father's eyes and he senses the frustration in Alfred's presence behind him. There's the ever-present question of _where he's been_ and he knows that there's a lie on his lips and he knows _Batman_ knows better. Just as much as he knows what they _think_.

There's a tremor in his hands that he cannot stop and there's a _fear_ in his heart because he _knows_ what they'll discover if they press the issue of where he's been. It's not what they _think_ , but it's close enough. It's black market and it's classified as _illegal_ no matter how much it helps him when he's at his _worst_. 

He's not one for religion, not after all that he _knows_ , but if he were, he'd have taken to praying to go unnoticed long ago. 

He's been so careful, been the direct opposite of _careless_ , but there are some things he cannot possibly hope to hide forever and _this_ is the biggest one of all.

There's a reason to every case and there's a bigger one here than any of the people standing in front of him can possibly understand. Bruce is already tensing to take him when another presence enters the room. 

Words aren't spoken, but the scent of cheap cologne and gun oil give him away like little else ever could. There's a _threat_ in his presence and it's one that Bruce yields to by nothing more than _habit_. 

Jason has offered his escape and Damian takes it as if his own demons are at his heels instead of staring him down from the inside. 

He hates the _lies_ and he hates the fact that it's never _worth_ it, though, admittedly, the delicate taste of the confection he'd partaken tonight had been a fleeting sort of _pleasure_. 

Sometimes he wishes this could be _forever_.

**KILLER**

Gotham's air hits him like a slap in the face. The wind and the rain have already driven him to the very edge, have already tested all of their limits tonight. He's cold and he's _wet_ to his very core. His bones ache along every past fracture and it's like some cruel _memory_. 

There's a throb along his cheek and he _remembers_ that one with a stunning clarity that should have robbed him of his very breath. He can see the terror in their eyes and he can _feel_ their blood on his hands. It's as slick and fleeting as the rain. 

The memory pushes toward another, tugs him despairingly toward a _slaughter_ , brought to fruition at the end of his blade, by judgment of his _voice_. There's a sick roll in his stomach that has only _grown_ each year he adds to his calendar. 

He could ask himself a million times: _what have I done_ and it would never _ever_ be enough, because it's easier to list what he _hasn't_ when it comes to the unpleasant aspects of that life he's tried so hard to leave behind. 

His kick impacts the mugger a little too hard and the man drops like lead. There's fear in his veins and there's _ice_ in his head. He takes too long to see if the man's breathing, takes too long to see if he can apply the _killer_ label to himself for the hundredth time in his life and he takes a knife to the side. 

There's an instant where he almost wishes it had been higher, where he _almost_ lets their second blade drive home. He moves at the last second, takes the man down hard and lays him out next to his buddy, uses it as an excuse to _check_. 

A voice in his mind tells him he shouldn't _care_ , tells him there's only one way to fight, and he _rips_ it apart the same way he'd rip himself apart if only given the chance. There's an image of his hands, bloodied and dripping on the ground beneath... and he thinks to himself that there are badges one wears with pride and then there are the great neon signs one decidedly wears to represent their dismal _failures_.

His... his is labeled _killer_.

**JUSTIFICATION**

He could kid himself, could tell himself over and over that what he did was in the name of something he was _bred_ to desire. It might even work if it weren't for the way his hands _itch_ sometimes. If it weren't for the _thirst_ that wells up inside of him and _begs_ him to make the same old mistake.

Every time he hits a little too hard. Every time he comes so fragilely close to ridding the planet of another piece of criminal _trash_. There's a tingle in his fingertips that has nothing to do with _justice_ and everything to do with _instinct_. He's been raised a killer and there's a bit to be said about once a killer, always a killer, and he _wonders_ why he's been forgiven by the very man who fights people like him every single night.

When he looks in the mirror, he can throw up every flimsy justification he's ever spoken and every single one of them falls shorter than the truth. There were lives he took... _because he could_. Seven years old and a strength to rival an army. Eight years old and a blade across an innocent woman's throat. Nine years old and-

And he cannot let himself remember those things in all of those ways. 

Sometimes he wants _forgiveness_ and sometimes he wants _revenge_. He doesn't question it as he slides down the wall, as he curls in on himself and lets the prickle of pain in his palms be what grounds him. He doesn't question the whisper of the door or the warmth of another not a foot to his left. 

There are tears in his eyes and for the first time in _years_ he doesn't fight their presence in front of another. They spill _scalding_ down his cheeks and when the hand is offered as his salvation, he _acts_ before he finds the desire to stop himself. 

Tim's lips taste like something he'll never describe and the quiver in his belly _feels_ like something he's barely starting to come to terms with. There's a justification here as well: a myriad of lies to explain away his actions, his _reactions_ to Tim's very presence in his life. 

He rejects them all and replaces them with nothing but his _want_. In this, there is _blinding_ truth.

**ISOLATION**

It's been years since he's held the companionship of someone he could call a _friend_. He pushes them all away, keeps them all at a fragile distance somewhere in his peripherals. He's _haunted_ by the isolation that he's put himself within. 

There's a burning in his gut that tells him he needs _someone_ and there's a promise in his mind that tells him if he's _brave enough_ , there's at least one, if not two, that will let him in from the barren tundra of his mind.

It's difficult, knowing there's strength in the very thing that he _fears_ and it's worse understanding that he'd give the world away to have something he's already deemed _impossible_.

He's been held in isolation so long that he doesn't know how to hold together what he yearns for. He's failed before he's ever tried. It's something of a hopeless case.

**HEALING**

There are far too many dried up words in his throat; too many useless, used up little pieces of every _promise_ he's ever wanted to make. He's caught in the current of the world and he feels like he's falling apart even when he's not.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he _knows_ he could have it all if only he'd _ask_. Somewhere on the tip of his tongue are the words he needs to _speak_. 

He watches Tim and he _sees_ someone who's finally healing. He sees the wounds closing before his very eyes and he _wishes_ it could be him just as much as it is Tim. 

He sees the smiles that _mean_ something and he sees the light that had been _dead_ in his eyes begin to return.

He _misses_ how he used to help and he finds that he _can_ be incredibly selfish in his own right. Tim doesn't _need_ him anymore and he hadn't expected that to _hurt_ as much as it does.

He supposes there's a counterpart to healing. There's a _loss_ he hadn't been planning on and it drills deep into his gut and whispers to him how _useless_ he is when it comes to things like these.

**GAP**

There's a gap in his heart and it's a mile wide. There's a rip there that _burns_ , angry and raw, and so much more dangerous than any of the other _wounds_ that have ever been inflicted to such a fragile place.

He's lost his mother, he's lost the respect of those closest to him not once, but _twice_. He's watched a young girl die because of _his_ carelessness. None of it can compare to what is ripping him apart inside every single time he looks at _him_. He can't even think of his name without the pain burning fresh and bright inside of him. 

He thinks of the world around him and he thinks of the world _inside_ of him and he knows which one is the hopeless space.

Every fight is only another _drill_. Every success nothing more than a simple _job_. There's no glory in any of it for him anymore. It's as if the last fragile piece of his light has burned away. 

It's when he finds _himself_ unable to breathe, when he finds his own world collapsing down on top of him, that he _knows_ what he has to do.

Tim may not need him, but _he_ needs Tim and while he's sworn never to be selfish another time in his life, he knows there are promises that have to be _broken_. There are pieces to be picked up and there are words to be spoken and while they've never _been_ anything, he knows he _has_ to put a name to it this time. 

There's a hatred inside of him that's built all for himself, a pyre upon which he's desperately burning the past, and he knows the only thing holding him back is _himself_.

**FEAR**

There's a tangible _fear_ in his heart, the taste of copper on his tongue that has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with the way he's barely breathing. His palms are sweaty and he knows it has to be like this and it has to be _now_ , because Tim came to _him_. 

The day has long since turned to the fade of the sun from the sky and there's been a tingle in his fingertips that has _everything_ to do with how badly he wants to feel Tim's hand within his own, and he thinks to himself that any other time it would be humorous how _pathetically_ behind he is with this sort of thing. 

The taste of alcohol has passed his lips and the taste of the most _sinful_ things never has. He's held the bitter flavor of marijuana deep in his lungs and yet he's never _felt_ the touch of the only person he's ever really wanted to have upon his skin. They've treated one another as some sort of fragile alliance instead of the sweet _sin_ he's wanted it to be. 

His hand moves of _his_ volition this time and when he takes Tim's hand it's with a purpose and when the words leave his mouth, it's a _plea_ and it's the _truth_. He tells Tim the story of a boy so very lost in his own _Hell_ that he couldn't see the light of anything over the blackness of his _transgressions_. He tells him of the light in his life and when he _confesses_ that the only light has ever been _Tim_ , the reaction is everything he could have ever wanted.

This time when he's in his arms, it's because he _wants_ to be touched and it's because he's _welcome_ there. This time it has nothing to do with _staunching_ the flow of an age old wound and everything to do with _creating_ a future. 

**ECSTASY**

There are still days he can't _stand_ to be touched, still times he could do anything to _get away_ from anything that resembles _feeling_. In the same breath, there are times he can't let go, times he wants to _beg_ for Tim's arms around him. It's the only touch he trusts and it's the only one he can truly _stand_. 

Tim's been careful with him, but he doesn't treat him like a fragile little _doll_. He asks permission and his smile is so _bright_ when Damian settles in his lap. 

Tonight... tonight it's like he can't get enough. Tonight he _aches_ and he _needs_. There's a heat coiled low in his abdomen and there's half a thought in his mind to ask for exactly what he wants. 

The words can't quite find freedom on the air, but his body does what his mouth cannot. His hands grip and _tug_ , his breathless whisper is only a single-worded plea as he pushes Tim's warm palm down against his _need_. 

There's surprise in Tim's face and he knows it's something he's invited to be there and he _laughs_ and it's a sound he hasn't known for so many years that it feels as awkward as it, perhaps, sounds. There's a moment where he thinks maybe it was the _wrong_ reaction and then Tim's lips are pressed against his own, Tim's hands are busy with his pants, and then there's _sweet_ relief.

It floods him in a way that tells of just how long he's been holding this back. Too many years spent _denying_ , too long spent _hating himself_ , and it feels like the _ecstasy_ that it should to finally be free.

The first and the third are just as short as he'd ever expected it would be if he ever _gave in_ and the last is punctuated by the precession of Tim's own cry, by the bitter _taste_ of Tim's cum across his tongue, and if he'd known it would be this _good_ , he'd have given in _years ago_.

This is _letting go_.

**DEMONS**

They still carry their demons, so deep inside of their souls. Sometimes they're but a shadow, lurking in the night and sometimes they're the raw _infection_ that drives them _closer_. Every night spent hearing Tim's gasping breaths as he fights off his nightmares is another night he knows he's never been alone in this. Every time he finds the bitter red bite of Tim's nails down the pale expanse of his thighs, it's just further proof that no one can be _perfect_.

His reactions to touch can still be just as volatile as they've ever been. He's dropped three people tonight for the mere transgression of _daring_ to lay a finger on him. He's using a staff tonight, because he's _learned_ that this is how he pulls himself back. He keeps his strikes pulled just that last little bit because there's a voice whispering _calming_ in his ear. 

He doesn't know where they'd be without each other and he's not sure he _wants_ to know. He can't imagine a world where he cannot go home tonight and sit in the shower, his back pressed against the slickness of the only thing he can _stand_ , and listen to the quiet melody of Tim's voice telling him about his day.

He can't imagine a world where he can _see_ the evidence of how his fingertips caught against Tim's own chase away the desperate desire to _hurt_ in Tim's eyes. 

There's not a single place he wants to be that doesn't involve helping Tim chase away his demons and he can't see a _better_ place to set fire to his own.

**COMFORT**

Sometimes there's _comfort_ in the simple act of reading aloud in a language Tim hasn't grasped yet. There's a _glee_ in teaching him word-by-word what it means to feel each and every new sound upon his tongue. Sometimes there's a _tactile_ part to his teachings. Sometimes there's the slick of tongue against tongue as he _shows_ him what he means and, really, he's never _seen_ a better student. 

The flush in his skin each time he demonstrates is another form of comfort. The rock of his hips when he cannot stop himself from _wanting_ is a path toward yet another. 

There isn't a world in which he can imagine their union not holding some of the most incredible moments of _discovery_ he's ever had. He's learning to love himself just as much as he _loves_ Tim and he has to admit that while it will be a hell of a road, he's more than willing to _succeed_. 

When Tim reads _to him_ , it's an accomplishment. When his corrections become fewer and fewer, it becomes something to _smile_ about, and when he asks Tim to translate it and he _does_ it becomes some of the most thoughtful victories he's ever had in his life. 

There's something to be said for all of the things he once resisted. 

**BELIEF**

He has to _believe_ it will stay this way. He has to see the ability in him to hold himself together just enough to keep Tim in his life. 

Even on his worst nights, even with tears in his eyes from the cold and the damp and the _goddamned_ fractures in his arms, he finds it in him to let Tim _hold_ him. He finds a place to let the bitter bite of his nails dig into and he finds that that, too, is some mutual form of gratification that he'd never expected. 

There are places it leads that he _questions_. But when the sound of Tim's voice swells and becomes _music_ to his very ears, he knows there's nothing else they could be doing. There's nowhere else this could have _gone_. 

There's no shame in the tears on their faces and there's nothing but relief in the way their lips meet. 

This is their pain and this is their _belief_.

**ACCEPTANCE**

There's a name he's been refusing to put to his past for far too many years. There's a single word that he's never let himself lend as a label to what has framed his life since he's been conscious of it. There's a word he's always thought was _dirty _and _weak_ and there's a _fear_ he's always had in admitting it. __

__There's a tremor in his fingers as he leans over the counter and stares himself down in the mirror. There are tears in his eyes and there's a hitch in his breath as he takes it in to give this single word _voice_. He _has_ to. He _needs_ to._ _

__This is a part of his life and he has to _own_ it like he's done a million other things. He's whispered _killer_ and _coward_ to the mirror. He's put voice to _hero_ and he's allowed room for the word _lover_ , but he's never let this one come up._ _

__It's broken and it's _worse_ than any of the others in the way it sounds. But it's the _truth_ and when he speaks it, he finds that it also holds _freedom_. The tears run hot down his cheeks and he whispers the one thing he's always needed to hear._ _

__"Survivor."_ _


End file.
